


Please Don't (Die Without Me Joining)

by JennaMoon



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Character Death, Established Relationship, Hurt Tony, M/M, Murder, Paranoid Stephen Strange, Protective Stephen Strange, StrangeIron, in a dream only
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaMoon/pseuds/JennaMoon
Summary: After dreaming of Tony's death, Stephen becomes obsessed with protecting his husband.





	1. Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LivRulesTheUniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivRulesTheUniverse/gifts).



Despite being in the throes of August, the evening air had become cool – a slight push from the wind sending a draft through the bedroom. It trickled onto the bed, up onto the bare-chested body that lay on top of silk sheets. The chill must have dug deep.

With sharp inhale the body shot up, eyes bolting open and chest heaving. Shaking, scarred and cracked, his hands pushed through his greying hair, feeling the matted sweat. Stephen Strange had awoken.

“Tony?” His voice cracked, turning to face the left. The bedsheet was strewn carelessly, a screwed up pillow was vertical on the mattress; it had been left unceremoniously. Blurred blue eyes checked around the room, trying to catch a glimpse of brown hair or smooth skin. “Jesus, my head…” With a gentle thump, the man lifted himself off the bed; taking a moment to steady his dizzying head.

Heavy footing led the man to the open window. The sky was black, sunless. Starless. Cloudless. Just a deep, black. Streetlights shone dimly, no lights seemed to be on in the neighbour’s home. Stephen stuck his head out of the window, feeling the breeze pick up with fearsome speed.

“What time is- what?”

The breeze carried on, gaining momentum. The trees that littered the front garden and driveway were still. The hedge, neatly trimmed and straight was still.

His own hair remained in one place.

“The fuck is happening?” The doctor spoke, quickly shutting the window and walking out of the bedroom. The fibres of the cream carpet felt like needles, stabbing and pinching his skin. He sped out of the room, the wood of the hall feeling like a newfound comfort. He sighed, stilling looking around. The lights were dim, barely giving the man any aid. “Tony?” He called, voice hitched with worry.

The floorboard creaked as Stephen walked towards the staircase, the sound piercing his through to his brain. It had never creaked before. Hairs on his arms began to stand on point, hands shaking violently. He grunted in pain, annoyance, fear; eyes darting around.

“Tony, are you alright?!” He called. No response yet again.

Stephen began to descend the stairs in pairs, hands refusing to press into the wall. The thud of his feet hitting the wooden slabs became more and more prevalent; a particularly harsh thump was followed by –

_CRASH_

Stephen had no time to react as his feet went through the stair, hitting the concrete that held it all together. He cried as his heel smashed, body flying forward. His body juddered down the stairs, ribs crashing against the corners of steps and head hitting the same carpet flooring as the bedroom. He felt his heel smack the wall, sending another shattered shock up his leg, riveting through his spine.

Vision bleating, head bleeding, body battered. Stephen groaned loudly as he rolled onto his back, attempting to alleviate the pressure off his chest. “Oh God…” He sputtered, mouth filling with bile. He turned his head to the side, spitting out as powerfully as he could. His ribs seemed to rattle, painfully pricking his organs hidden within.

“Tony!” He cried out. Still nothing.

He cried out in pain as his foot jolted, smacking the wall again. “Fuck!” He screamed. As he lay on the ground, Stephen noticed the kitchen light was on. Not dimmed. On and bright. The door was only ajar, though, not much else could be seen.

 Stephen moaned in pain, snacking his drying lips together. “Tony!” He cried once more, already anticipating the lack of response. “Ugh, fuck…” He inhaled.

With a heavy swing, Stephen forced himself back onto his stomach, whimpering as the carpet pricked his body. Fierce pants filled the air as the man pulled his body like a deadweight, elbows digging into the ground and thighs wiggling for hopes of extra movement.

The corridor felt long, and cold, dark. Sweat rushed down his face, stinging his eyes and tasting salty on his too-dry tongue. The carpet burnt with every rub against his barely clothes body. “F-fuck… fucking, fuck!” He screamed, feeling his stomach flip from stoking hot pain.

Once he managed to pull his body close enough to the door, Stephen opened it with his head, wincing.

Bile quickly worked its way up again.

Blood on the cream tiles, red and metallic-smelling. Splatters on the counters, on the drawers, on the island. The breeze, the very same breeze that had awoken Stephen, picked up. Stephen shivered and shuddered.

The French doors that led to the veranda were smashed, blood running down shards of glass.

“Tony?” He whispered, lips still dry and cracked and hurting. He pushed past the pain, body shifting through the blood.

The slippy wetness of the tiles caused Stephen’s elbow to slide, landing the man face first in the blood. He had been a doctor, a neurosurgeon. Blood had always been a non-issue.

It filled his ears, nostrils, mouth. A sickly spluttered ridded some, but not all.

A few furious blinks later and he could see again, just around the corner of the island. He could see the back of limp Tony, head covered in red blood.

“Tony, baby hold still, I-” Stephen tried to wriggle closer. His heart was trying to escape his chest, each thump reminding him that his ribs were probably broken. His Tony needed help; he just needed to get his body to co-operate.

One slight jolt forward and the breeze stopped.

It was still. Blood was still, Stephen’s heart stopped as his efforts allowed him to see.

Tony’s body was resting against a counter.

His tendons had been cut.

His wrists had been cut.

The scar from his heart surgery years ago had been re-opened, oozing blood still.

Stephen gagged and lowered his gaze back down to Tony’s head.

The cut was jagged; the spine had been snapped and the muscle was practically shredded.

Stephen, despite the protests in his mind and body, knocked the head to face him.

Tony’s mouth was hung in terror. His nostrils flared.

His eyes had been gauged out.

Stephen let out a terrified scream, hands covering his face, Tony’s blood surrounding him, on him, drowning him.

 

 

It was his own scream that woke Dr. Stephen Strange up.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reminders haunt Stephen. 
> 
> Peter comes home from Ned's house.

Tony had a tendency to make omelettes when wanting to get something off his chest. Stephen had grown accustomed to the smell of burnt yolk and too much pepper over the years – ‘I want to adopt’; ‘I have a murmur in my heart’; ‘I think you’re cheating on me but I’m not sure’.

Many phrases and feelings came attached to Tony’s omelette. Some made Stephen feel frustrated and confused, others were intertwined with emotions of a lighter note.

Tony’s omelette was the reason they decided to adopt Peter, after all.

If Stephen had to be honest, and he often didn’t mind being honest, the last thing he wanted when wearily walking down the stairs was the smell of egg.

“Tony?” He called out, fear pitting in his stomach.

“About time you woke up, Merlin. Thought you might have keeled over in your sleep!” Came the reply, tone easy and amused. Relief flushed through Stephen, untightening his chest somewhat.

Before opening the door, he took a few moments to breathe. Steady his hands. He closed his eyes, opened the door, waited to be hit by a breeze that never came.

The smell of egg did not turn into the smell of blood, copper and fresh.

He opened his eyes to find the French doors intact, no blood in sight. In his sight was, however, a breathing, living Tony. The younger man grinned at him, before pressing a spatula against the semi-charcoal omelette, the perishable letting out a distressed hiss.

“Have you ever, ever, in your life been served an omelette that looked like that.” He asked, tipping his brow up.

“My mom used to cook them like that. It’s Italian.” Tony’s reply earned a curt laugh. He turned, pointed the spatula at his husband and smirked. “You haven’t shaved. Have you seriously only just woken up this minute? What happened to the MSSK Strategy?”

“That,” Stephen made his way around the island, placing a hand on Tony’s hip “was your idea. Maybe I just wanted to get to K?” He asked, looking down. For a brief moment, Stephen imagined Tony’s severed head, eyes plucked out and stolen, in his hands. Rapid blinks ridded the image from his mind and instead he landed within the warm swirl of chocolate-brown his husband held within his gaze.

“Remind me what K stands for again?” Tony teased, stretching out to bring his face closer to Stephen’s.

“Kiss.”

“Kiss.” Tony repeated, pressing his lips against Stephen’s. Stephen rubbed imperfect circles into Tony’s hip through the cheap, battered Iron Maiden shirt and sighed into the kiss.

Tony pulled away, turning back to the strove top. “Go sit, and I’ll bring you breakfast!” He chirped, petting Stephen’s ass.

Stephen took a seat at the breakfast counter, watching Tony impatiently shift his weight from side to side.

 

When Stephen first met Tony, the younger man was unconscious in a hedge. His nose was crooked and covered in dried blood, his upper lip was split and swollen, his knuckles were bruised. All Stephen wanted was some milk – he returned home with a Tony instead.

He recognised him, it was hard not to recognise a Stark; especially the Stark wonder-child who had essentially been locked out of his own fortune by a host of powerful, legally-qualified men. His own father’s business colleagues.

When Tony came to on his couch, the young man didn’t seem phased. Instead, he sat up, cracked his knuckles, stared at Stephen and with a wet, suggestive smirk asked: ‘Did we fuck?’.

When Stephen first met Tony, he hated him.

Tony had been impossible to ignore. His smirk was implanted into his mind, the way he had licked his lips and helped himself to the fruit on the coffee table. He ate apples like a porn star; letting juices dribble and collect just long enough that it gave him excuse to let loose his darting, pink tongue lap up the spilled goods.

His address had been written on a crumpled piece of thesis, blotched and appearance akin to chicken scratches. It repulsed Stephen. He knew Tony wanted the attention; his sexuality was a trap that Stephen was too smart to trip into.

Stephen managed to avoid seeking Tony’s home for two whole weeks.

 

Stephen was interrupted from his journey through the start of his and Tony’s relationship by a loud ‘bang’.

“Fuck!” Tony exclaimed, cradling his hand. Stephen quickly ran over, pulling Tony’s arm to get a look. “Cold water!” His husband yelled. Stephen complied, eyes drawing in the reddened, inflamed skin. He switched the water on, taking Tony to the tap. “It’s not cold enough.” The shorter man complained.

“It’s only meant to be cool, not cold.” He replied, opening the baking cupboard up and taking out a jar of honey. “We don’t have any cool compresses, Peter uses them like they’re going out of style.” He explained, staring at the burn uneasily.

Tony sighed. “Of course, that’s just great.” He complained, huffing. Noticing Stephen’s expression, he raised an eyebrow. “What? Am I growing a second head?” He asked, peering at the burn, too. He poked it, instantly recoiling and whining in pain.

“Can you be careful?! I want a long stretch of time where none of us end up hurt, bleeding or… or crippled!” Stephen grabbed Tony’s uninjured arm, frowning. Tony echoed his frown, eyes wide.

“What’s up with you?” He asked, shaking his head. “I’m fine, it’s just a burn, nobody is dying.” Tony rolled his eyes.

His brown, wide, beautiful eyes.

Stephen could see dirty, large fingers, uncut cuticles and fingernails filled with shit, struggling to push Tony’s eye into his socket, blood and pus and an assortment of fluids that were never meant to leak flowing out of his husband’s beautiful eyes. Fat fingers snatching the eyes, fighting against the muscles that held the eyes in place.

He could hear the wet snap as the eyes finally ripped from Tony’s skull.

Stephen’s face began to turn a light green. Tony took a step back, faced laced with worry. “Honey, you look really ill…” He said, looking at the arm still in Stephen’s grasp. His knuckles were white from the pressure being applied, and Tony’s arm shook rapidly along with Stephen’s hands. “Let go.” He ordered.

Stephen did so. He stared at Tony for a few more moments, before gasping and running to the bathroom.

Tony let out a shaky breath. “The fuck…” He whispered, switching off the tap and wrapping a kitchen towel around his burn. He quietly made his way to the downstairs bathroom.

_Knock, knock._

“I’m sorry, Tony.” Stephen spoke through the door, voice laced with guilt. Tony rested his head on the door.

“No harm no foul, hon. What’s up?”

“Your ego, my spasms rate, Peter’s college tuition costs.”

“We have another two years for Peter’s college tuition costs to get even higher, Stephen.”

Tony grinned as Stephen chuckle made an appearance. “Was it the omelette?”

“… A little. I had a shitty dream. Bad timing. Not your fault, you couldn’t have known.” The flush of the toilet could be heard. Stephen put his hands on the handle, ready to push. He stopped as the vision of Tony’s eyeless face haunted his mind. “Tell me what’s on your mind.” Tony’s sigh was long, Stephen felt as his husband lowered himself onto the floor, head on the door.

“I don’t like my job.”

“Nobody likes working.”

“Heh, yeah.”

“You want to quit?”

There was a silence. “Yeah. I do. I could do stuff with Bruce.”

“You could have done stuff with Bruce for years, but we both know there’s no money in-”

“We have something, Steph. Ultron AI technology.” Tony interrupted. “And I can do freelance stuff on the side. There’s always some college kid with too much dodgy hentai on his laptop that needs somebody to fix it.”

“That’ll be our son… Tony, if this is what you want then do it. We’ve been through really shit money problems, we can handle a few months of you getting on your feet with… Voltro-”

“Ultron AI.”

“Right.” Stephen unlocked the door, staring down at Tony. He smiled gently. “I’m glad you discussed it with me before making a decision. I love you.”

“Love you too.” Tony got up off the ground, kissing Stephen. “Sorry for tipping you over.”

“It’s no issue. When is Peter back?”

Tony hummed in thought, before shrugging. “I’d assume it depends on what Mrs. Leeds makes for dinner. If it’s stir fry, he’ll be back around 8 PM. If it isn’t, I’d assume four PM.” He hugged Stephen.

Stephen ran a hand through Tony’s hair. “Either way, dress sharp for this evening. Let’s go out for dinner.”

“Sounds awesome.”

 

Tony’s impulse control was non-existent for the most part. Stephen knew that, Tony knew that, the world knew that. But unlike Stephen and the rest of the world, Tony refused to attempt to build one for himself. ‘Life is too short for risk assessments, honey.’ The brunet would grin. Before setting himself on fire because ‘candles burn, Tony!’. All the same, Stephen loved Tony.

But boy did it put him on edge.

50 cups of coffee a day, ten minute naps supplementing a night’s rest and a sizable amount of debt leading to hard, long work hours all contributed to Tony’s sudden need to stimuli. Stephen, busy with his own work, hadn’t noticed.

It had been their son, Peter, who found Tony drooling in the back garden, a bottle of nearly-empty whisky at his side.

Arguments exploded from three sides, painting the kitchen in memories of Stephen smashing wine bottles and Peter near-tears and Tony shutting down from the world. Their bedroom was left untouched for three months; when Tony had eventually agreed to go to rehab there had been too much good, too much happiness linked to that room for Stephen to walk in, let alone sleep on their bed.

Tony was a danger to himself at the best of times. And that terrified Stephen.

 

“… And Ned’s mom said that next time she’ll make stir fry!” Peter exclaimed between bites of overcooked pizza. Stephen smiled at his son, checking his watch for the time. He frowned; Tony had been upstairs for 20 minutes. “Where are you and Dad going?”

“Uh, Buena Vista? Tony likes it… it’s-”

“Italian? But not really.” Peter grinned, wiping his tomato-stained hands on his lap.

“You know what he’s like. He’ll order pizza anyway. Might as well take him to Pizza Hut.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Can we go? Not today obviously but, can we? Please?” He leaned in, mouth braced with anticipation.

“Sure, though there’s going to be a couple of changes coming up pretty soon, Peter.” Stephen said, shifting in his seat. Peter tilted his head to the side.

“Huh? Oh, dad told you that he wants to quit and go into business with uncle Bruce, didn’t he?”

Stephen faltered, blinking a couple of times. Of course Tony told Peter. Of course he did. It was Tony he was talking about; why wouldn’t tell a 16 year old? “He… did, yeah. When did he tell-”

“A couple days ago, not biggie. He didn’t want to tell you with an omelette. But he did anyway. He told me.”

Stephen sighed. “Great. I’m going to go check on your dad.”

“Okay, Doctor Dad!” Peter said, standing up. “I won’t wait up.”

Stephen checked his watch again, walking into the hall. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening for a few seconds.

_‘… Totally, I don’t even think… Ultron can’t fail, Brucie. Put some faith into your bestie… Sure, sure-‘_

“Tony!” Stephen called, making his way up the stairs. He watched as Tony left the room, wide smile on his face.

The shorter man was sporting a red shirt, two top buttons open, with a grey suit jacket on the top, cat cufflinks on show. His jeans were tight and black, sculpting Tony perfectly. Stephen made sure to mould the image into his mind. For future reference, of course.

“Hey.” He breathed. Tony winked, putting his phone away.

“Are you crushing on me, Strange?”

“I don’t know, Stark; how about you give me a reason to?”

Tony jutted his ass out, sauntering to Stephen. Stephen took in the mischief in his eyes, the glint that danced playfully through the brown of his iris, tingling the black of his pupil. There was a fire in them, warm and glowing and roaring; like precious jewels, unique and deep and promising a peaceful forever within them.

_Creak_

The floorboard groaned under Tony’s feet. Stephen’s chest tightened, phantom pains dancing along his ribs. Shivers ran down his spine; was there a breeze?

Tony continued to sway his hips, creeping towards Stephen with the corner of his mouth upturned into a smirk. He placed his hand on the taller man’s chest.

His smirk turned a confused frown. “You’re heart’s pumping real fast… You okay, honey?” He asked.

Stephen’s throat was dry. He gulped, lips smacking together. He moved to take Tony’s face in his hands, but all he managed was a loose, shaken pet of his cheek. Tony frowned, pressing the hand to his cheek firmly.

“What’s wrong?”

“The floorboard.” He mustered, before blushing slightly. Tony’s confusion grew deeper, and he turned to look. “What’s up with it?”

“The creaking… It’s nothing, just me getting old.” He offered, kissing Tony’s head. The Brunet turned back, catching Stephen’s lips in a kiss.

“If you’re sure. Don’t be turning senile on me already; I don’t need you obsessing over floorboards. I’ll try to sort it tomorrow or something, anyway… Do you still want to go out?”

Stephen gave a quick nod. “Definitely. Just… Uh, get down those stairs.”

“You gonna try driving?”

“Ha. No, it’s been a pretty bad day. I don’t think I’ll be able to grip my cutlery properly, nevermind a steering wheel.”

“Fair enough. I’ll just have to sit on your lap and feed you.” Tony winked as he made his way down the stairs. Stephen watched as his husband left his field of view. He let out a long sigh, driving his hands through his hair.

“Pull yourself together, Strange.” He mumbled, shaking his head.

He could have sworn his peripheral held the image of Tony, bleeding from a deep gash in his throat. Dragging his heavy, weak body towards Stephen, arms outstretched, pleading for help. Words turning into blood-splattering gurgles.

Stephen practically ran down the stairs, his heart banging too loudly for him to notice the crack that escaped the middle step on the set of stairs.

 

9 PM and lights were low in the Stark-Strange household. Peter sat in his room, legs curled up to his chest. Tears ran down his red cheeks, dripping onto his kneecaps. A sob left his throat, sore and scratched.

‘Peter, just think about how in two years you won’t even be at High School anymore. Just think about it. We’ll be at MIT, living it large!’ Ned’s voice filled the room, slightly distorted from the cheap speaker system within Peter’s (horrendously cracked) phone. ‘We can share a room, and we can screw up baking brownies!’

Peter let out a sniffle, wiping his tears away onto his sleeve. “Y-you’re right…” He mumbled. “I just don’t get what I did to him.”

‘He’s jealous of you, that’s what’s up with him. Flash Thompson is, and always will be, a dickface… My mom wants me. You gonna be okay?’

“Y-yeah, I should be now. Thanks, man.”

‘No issue. Love you!’

“Back at ya.” Peter sighed as Ned hung up, his phone screen going back. With a heavy grunt, the teen threw himself off the bed, opting to stand in the middle of his room. His computer was on, the background showing himself and Ned holding his 16th Birthday cake (Deathstar!), his dads sticking their tongues out either side of the two.

He smiled at the image, wrapping his arms around himself tightly.

“Good family.” He whispered to himself, before leaving his room. The floorboard creaked under the pressure, though Peter didn’t pay it much attention. He had better things in mind; fudge sundae supreme!

Sure, maybe the other kids at school could be cruel at times… there wasn’t any need for the Penis Parker memes. But Peter knew that he was better, he had so much more potential than Flash. He’d go to college with Ned, they’d decorate their room awesomely!

A chill, sudden and unprovoked, hit Peter’s spine as he began his descent down the stairs. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. He thought it odd; surely the temperature shouldn’t be dropping so cold in August?

Arms wrapped around his mid-body. Eyes looking ahead, pondering colleges. The snap of the wood on the middle step took Peter by surprise. He yelped as his lost his footing, ankle twisting awkwardly to the right. With a rough tug, the teen flopped down the stairs, his head hitting the bottom step with a solid thud. Blood escaped the open cut on his forehead, swelling and red.

Peter’s ankle remained twisted, the bone tense and out-of-place.

His breathing was shallow and eyes were closed, mouth hung in a moment of surprise.

The step was broken.

Peter’s unconscious form tensed in the cold breeze that seemed to fill the house.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of this little story. 
> 
> Not only is this fanfiction a gift for the lovely LivRulesTheUniverse, it is also a way for me to practice building up tension in my writing. I'm glad that people noted the suspense in the last chapter! This one isn't as horrific, but I hope it acts as a nice gateway into what I have planned next.
> 
> Thanks for reading
> 
> Jenna

**Author's Note:**

> These paragraphs probably won't be that long; it all depends on the pace of the chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed the beginning of this new story.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at: shouldhavestayedonthebus
> 
>  
> 
> This was a gift for Liv, who is an awesome friend.


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